


falling in

by lareinesis



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Co-dependent feelings, Fingering, Frottage, M/M, Multi, Smut, Tour Fic, Twitter-Inspired, re-posted because i'm an idiot and cannot control my mouse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 12:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinesis/pseuds/lareinesis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of course, Niall knows that “brothers” don’t generally touch each other like this. Because that would be weird and wrong and, more importantly, illegal in most of the Western world—well, anywhere, really....</p>
            </blockquote>





	falling in

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, re-posting this, had a bit of a technical snafu and deleted by mistake. Dipping my toes with just a tiny and completely made up coda to one of Niall's tweets about missing the boys (see below). I changed a couple of sentences, in case you read it on the first go round.

 

 

 

 

First concert of the last tour leg, Adelaide, last few notes of  _What Makes You Beautiful_  pulsing through the air, the dizzying flicker of cell phones in a writhing mass of people that extends as far as his eye can see, and it’s so easy to slip back into the groove of being onstage, of being with each other—almost like they never left.

They’d all needed that three-week break. More than a hundred days on the road, across three continents, the five of them fraying at the edges, a pack of frantic rats on a fucking treadmill by the end of it. Throats whipped raw from singing every single night, rounds of bickering over the pettiest things, shoulders slumped and dead-eyed they’d file from bus-to-stage-to-bus-to-hotel as mindless as zombies. It'd drive anyone a bit nuts, so they'd gone their separate ways. And apart from the usual text messages, arbitrary phone calls at 2AM in the morning or Skype cam chats that lasted a couple of hours sometimes—they took the time to recover, remember how to breathe.

But now that they're back on the road, Niall wonders when being with these four lads started to feel more like home than home.  When Liam chases after Louis with a bottle of water, and Louis’ startled cackle rings through the domed hall, he grins, the sound of it patches a rip inside him he didn’t even know he had. Then Zayn steps up, calm and sure, tosses the bottle Liam’s way and holds his hand out to pull Louis to his feet. It’s such a _Zayn_ thing to do, to come to the rescue even when no one asks, always there, always solid. And Harry, skidding across the stage with that dervish energy he always gets when he's performing, makes Niall smile, fingers strumming on the guitar as he loses himself to it all too.

At the end, Niall pulls his boys—his brothers—in for a hug, their shirts soaked through with sweat, the adrenaline from the show and the thousands of screaming fans just settling into his muscles, rippling through him like a delayed electric shock, he thinks,  _Fuck, I’ve missed this_.

 

+

 

Hours later, hotel room, sliding doors leading out to the balcony wide open to let in a crisp night breeze, room service trays piled with gnawed-at leftovers, a few bottles of beer crowding the table in front of the T.V. which has  _Call of Duty Black Ops II_  all set up and ready to play, the spicy scent of one of Zayn’s cigarettes that they’d passed between four of them as they looked out onto the sleeping city outside, listened to Harry recount the storm he’d caused at Fashion Week and how absurd it all was, and five boys falling into each other.

Of course, Niall knows that brothers don’t generally touch each other like this. Because that would be weird and wrong and, more importantly, _illegal_  in most of the Western world—well, anywhere, really.

His eyelids shudder closed when Zayn’s mouth closes over the throbbing pulse at his neck, and he reaches down to sift his fingers through Harry’s curls—Harry who is kissing a wet trail down his abdomen to the tops of his boxers and pulling him closer by the backs of his knees.

A thump that sounds like a head hitting back against a door and then a pained hiss, “Oh, fuck—Lou, just like—.”

He knows without having to open his eyes that that’s Liam and the garbled laughter that follows tells him that Louis is probably halfway to swallowing him whole and loving it. Louis’ always had a special gift for unravelling Liam, especially a Liam at his most tightly-wound right after a show.  

Harry and Zayn are slower, more measured in their particular torture, always have been. They leave dime-shaped bruises, damp trails of spit, swathes of goose-pimpled skin in the wake of every touch. It would be bad enough to be at the mercy of just _one_  of them—Zayn with the sharp jut of his cheekbones, the tickle of his stubble, and those long artist’s fingers that can switch from delicate and tender to cruel and pinching in a dizzy second and make you forget everything, forget yourself, beg for more; and Harry with that mouth of his, the octopus limbs that wrap and wind themselves around a person until you think there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

But the two of them together at the same time wrecks him, singes his skin and builds up in his limbs so he thinks he might explode. If it wasn’t for Zayn’s hands and deceptively slender body holding him up, he’d have melted into the carpet minutes ago.

He arches when Harry’s mouth closes around the tip of his cock while Zayn bites hard on one nipple and twists the other between his fingers—the contrast between the soft, wet heat and punishing teeth is breath-taking. Straining into the two of them, he clenches his lips to hold back a stream of curses.

Niall knows for a fact that Zayn and Harry used to pull girls together—probably still do. And maybe that’s why the two of them are so good at this, moving in time to some sort of silent beat like a pair of dancers, languid but certain in the way they touch him. Harry holds onto his hip with large capable hands and lifts Niall’s leg over his shoulder to give more room to work, Zayn shifts to stand behind so he can watch Harry and press his jeans-clad length into the small of Niall’s back. Harry licks a fat stripe along the underside of Niall’s cock, Zayn runs a teasing finger down the line of his spine right to the cleft of his arse cheeks. Harry sinks down until Niall can feel the suction at the back of his throat and his knees buckle, and Zayn spreads him wide open and tips a probing, spit-wet finger into his tight hole.

His head feels as light as air, and also like he’s plunging off the side of a mountain into nothing. And when Zayn pushes a second finger inside him and nibbles on his earlobe with a whispered, “Come for us, babe,” Niall can't help but obey. He’s never been good at saying no to him, to any of them. He throws his head back and a weak “Zayn,” slips out of his mouth, he spills in a series of shocked spurts onto Harry’s waiting tongue with Zayn’s warm, steadying hand on his tensing belly.

Time collapses. In a daze where everything seems to come to him through a smoky filter, Niall can hear the rhythmic thud of bodies slamming into a wall, and Louis moaning _Liam_ so loudly, that husky scratch to his voice, he's sure anyone passing by can get an earful.

He's slumped like dead weight into Zayn who doesn’t let him fall but somehow manages to kick off his jeans and socks. Harry stands up, and kisses Zayn, slow and open-mouthed. Niall shivers at the way their tongues curl into each other, obscene and wet pink, because he knows they’re sharing  _him_ , the taste of him. He can feel both their dicks, slick columns of heat, straining into him, Zayn nestled against his arse and Harry against his front.  They start to thrust in tandem, it’s sloppy and filthy and urgent. Zayn’s arms wrap around passed Niall to grip at Harry’s hips and pull at him roughly. Harry pushes back until there’s no space between the three of them, rucks one of his thighs between Niall’s legs so he has a bit of leverage. His cock slips up against Niall’s, there’s the shameless slap and squelch of skin against sticky skin.

Niall’s on his tiptoes, half-hard again just from the bruising pace they set, the way they use his body to get what they want—he doesn’t even have to do anything but hold on for the ride.

Zayn’s hips stutter first, he grunts low and desperate in his throat. Harry’s watching him, eyes half-shut and glinting with hunger. He leans over Niall’s shoulder to lick at Zayn’s mouth and it looks, from this close, like he’s trying to eat him all up until there’s nothing left. Harry’s always been like that—can’t do anything halfway, pours his heart and soul into even the smallest of things and won’t stop until he’s spent.

Zayn whimpers, and it’s such a fragile, strangled sound from him. He reaches up to grasp Harry’s chin, as if he could pull him closer, pull him into himself. They’re gasping into each other’s mouths now, harried, sweat lining Zayn’s upper lip, Harry’s chin mottled red from the bristle of Zayn’s beard. “Together, Haz, come on,” he says it with his voice all broken and jagged at the edges, and comes in a wet pulse against Niall’s back, breathing out Harry’s name. His come slides down Niall’s back and the cleft of his bum. Harry rocks forward and finishes too, guttural moan dragged out of his throat, his entire body clenched as though he’s in pain.

The two of them are trembling, foreheads pressed together as they catch their breath and it’s Niall who has to hold them up this time, make sure none of them falls.  

Seconds, minutes later Zayn presses a warm kiss to Niall’s shoulder and another to the corner of Harry’s mouth, and says, “I’ve missed you, missed you so much.” And that right there's one of the things Niall loves most about Zayn, how honest he is about his feelings, it’s written all over his face, in the way he pulls each of them in for a hug and ruffles their hair or glides a warm hand over their shoulders, plain for anyone who knows to look.

 

+

 

Morning, bits of breakfast on trays by the door, piled up across the sofa, Niall and Liam have the game consoles and Louis’ sprawled across the both of them, yelling like a hooligan every time someone wins a point and reaching out to grope or kiss whoever’s closest as a reward. Zayn’s on the floor with his back against the sofa’s arm sipping on a cup of coffee and Harry’s got his head in his lap, purring every time Zayn sifts his fingers through his hair. The two of them are whispering to each other, a lazy smile on Zayn’s face when Harry says something funny or, probably, not funny at all, his eyes shiny and crinkled at the corners.

They fall into the rhythm of this, of each other without thought or effort. There's something reassuring in that, the way this remains untouched even when the whole world's swirling like mad about them. 

**Fin**


End file.
